Where the lights that go before us tred,
In darker days their absence led.
A flame out too soon, not quite begun,
When one cannot see their first setting sun,
Where the reaper concedes to angels
To ferry this small soul.
In lifes webs many tangles,
There’s one strand so bitter, and beautiful to behold.
Dedicated to the daughter of my friends Kendra and Jurian. May she rest in peace.
A single tear from her soul only
Comes softly with the words “Just hold me”.
That cold summer, drifting, lonely.
I don’t remember what it was that came before.
Preceeding the darkened night,
Being a requiem to a hopeful twilight,
An angels song; a bewitching blight,
Does nothing to lift her from the floor.
There is a silence after her song.
There is the light before the dawn!
There is the hope that she’s forgotten!
These are the dreams that once were trodden.
She survives because she endures.
Now of one thing she’s sure:
Her hopes and dreams are worth the gain,
Worth the work, and all the pain.
She sees darkness itself is to blame,
Her souls tear, an angels song, the same.
A suicide of angels.
One would from this angle
Wish their eyes were deceiving,
untrustworthy little orbs.
Their ears fearfully confirming
What their eyes see as burning,
But still what their brains cannot absorb.
All the while he is smiling
The one who, from afar, beguiling
Their denial into crying,
Terrifying panic, and insane rancor.
Oh! For the angels that should not have died before!
Then his smile betrays a clue.
This suicide of angels cannot be true!
What horror has been left for me and you?
The damage is done and he knows it.
Perhaps a wound impermanent, but who can close it?
Surely father time has no such tourniquet.
Now there is work to be done, stitches to sew.
What does the future hold? Who can know?
Once healed, these scars will follow us so,
We must do our best,
And learn to let go.
A note on the art:
I found this painting while browsing Tumblr, and could find no link to the artist. If you know the original artist please post a name or link in the comments below so that I may contact him/her to properly request permission for using their piece in my blog. Thank you. 🙂
Posted in Life (or something like it)
Tagged angel, brain, eye, Future, heal, horror, panic, poetry, rancor, scar, wound
With glistening eyes,
In a jaded cage he is confined
This: no bed of angels
His desire resides.
One time too many,
A stolen glance
A cost too great to keep company,
An infected wound must be lanced.
He sees perfection.
Ignorance gives way to bliss,
Here in the abyss.
These arms holding time,
Holding time against the tide.
Against the tide of entropy.
This and all we cannot see,
Many are the hands that take
Numberless for heavens sake.
Standing in the ruined place,
With a blind, all seeing face.
Holding time, letting go,
A small bit everyday so,
The world around to decay goes.
In all age and ageless flows.
The angel of undoing,
The lord of entopy.
Sage of death;
Allowance of lifes surging breath.
Special thanks to Peter Mohrbacher for giving permission to use his inspiring artwork.
View the original and other works here:
Posted in Time
Tagged angel, Armaros, arms, breath, death, entropy, life, poetry, tide, time, undoing
An angel made of stone,
Behind her an unknown light
Providing the way home.
At the end of this night,
Not lonely, but I am alone.
I know that she is sleeping
In that stone beneath the sky.
But nonetheless she is my guardian,
I will keep her in my eye.
What does she do but remind me?
Of the days to come.
To remind, to help forget.
What I’ve left behind can stay there.
With forward movement I’m let.
Here, meeting my guardian,
Restoring unknown hope.
Thanks to my brother Jesse for allowing me to use his photo for this poem, which was also the inspiration for me to write it 🙂
She and I
We never learned to fly,
With angels above in clouds
Riding the winds up high.
There was once an attempt to do so.
Inhospitable she found the cold,
We left the angels to their shroud,
And left for what home below
Remained for us. Such as we
Were destined to be.
Such things are in our nature.
What fate shall bring,
C’est la vie,
Until we meet our maker.